


Walking In The Crystal's Light II (FFXIV Writing Challenge 2018)

by lilithqueen



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Au Ra Raen (Final Fantasy XIV), Au Ra Xaela (Final Fantasy XIV), Elezen (Final Fantasy XIV), Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Feelings About Ishgard, Garleans (Final Fantasy XIV), Hyur (Final Fantasy XIV), Ishgard (Final Fantasy XIV), Miqo'te (Final Fantasy XIV), Multi, Summoner Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), and the Garlean war machine, and what it means to follow tradition, mostly OCs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 02:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 14,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16965828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: All the completed prompts from this year's writing challenge, now collected in one place and with even MORE characters that have suffered through my writing skills.





	1. Submerged (Shinju Toyotama)

**Author's Note:**

> For more character writing/aesthetic/etc, come find me at [ffxiv-swarm.](http://ffxiv_swarm.tumblr.com/)

You were safe under the sea. Malms from the sun, protected by ancient magics and the blessings of the kami, it was understood by all who dwelled in Sui-no-Sato that here was safety. The Ruby Princess ruled wisely and well, with the palace guards as her strong right hand. You’d be safe here, could raise your children in peace and comfort. The outside world had nothing you needed.

(Never, ever, dream of the surface.)

Do what you’re told. Don’t—hah-- _make waves_ , a saying you’ll finally learn when you leave. (Waves, those pale reflections of the undersea currents you grow up with, aren’t something you fear.) Honor your parents and elders, study the family business that you’ll inherit and pass down in turn to your children. When adventurers come—outsiders from the surface, with their strange ways and strange armor and strange _magic_ , magic unlike anything you’ve ever seen for you are not a shaman—don’t speak to them even if they _do_ save your princess from vile monsters.

(Never ask for a demonstration, never clap your hands with delight when a woman who calls herself an _arcanist_ summons a creature like a glowing red otter and lets you bury your fingers in its deliriously soft fur.)

Under the sea is safety and comfort and all you’ve ever known. Your parents, your family, your...well, he’s your fiance now, but you can’t think of him as anything other than the annoying older boy who once said your laugh sounded like a dying seal. (You’d given him a good solid whap with your tail for that.) If you stay in your village deep beneath the waves, cocooned by aether and the weight of the tides, nothing will harm you.

You break the surface of the water and it feels like the first full breath you’ve ever taken.


	2. Silenced (Tiber Gallius)

“Look at those savages down there.”

The creak of leather; a single _clunk_ as cermet armor settled into the wearer’s new position. Eyes on the horizon.

“Scurrying around in the dust, not a care in the world, and they’ve got the nerve to complain where they think we can’t hear! They don’t know how good they’ve got it, these aan.”

A muscle twitches along his jaw. Slow breathing, deliberately so. The sun is in his eyes. He doesn’t look away.

“We don’t even ship them off to the other provinces! They get to live in their dusty, scorching corner of hell, keep their weird rock homes with no bloody plumbin’--seriously, Gallius, you’re lucky you’re stationed here with modern amenities. And all we ask in return is that they follow our laws. Of course, when you’re as dense as they are, that’s a mite tricky. Had to shoot one for theft yesterday.”

One hand twitches, the smallest scrape of armor against the stone battlements. A long, deep breath. _Eyes on the horizon_. The sun is setting.

“...Gallius, you alright? Heat looks like it’s getting to you; maybe you ought to be in the shade.”

An audible swallow; a faint rustle of loose hair as he shakes his head.

“Eh, suit yourself. I’ll be in the officers’ mess.”

One set of armored boots walking away, loose-limbed and casual. Silence.

Silence.

One gauntleted fist slamming into the stone, and a sound like a half-strangled sob.


	3. Adytum (Evrard Briardionne)

_Holy, holy, holy._

_Blessed art thou, spear-rattling Halone, who crushes the dragon underfoot. Blessed—_

The cathedral had so many windows. So many windows, and yet it was always so blasted _dark_. Evrard knelt in the first pew, his forehead resting on his clasped hands, and breathed out. His breath hung in front of him, a chilling pale mist. Would no one ever stoke the boilers below?

_Holy—_

High, high above him, the bells began tolling the hour. Each note reverberated through him, striking in time with his heartbeat. He inhaled slowly, tasting dust and stone in his throat. Though the All Saint’s mass had concluded but moments ago, the sheer cold had laid to rest any lingering smells that might have indicated a congregation once sat here, filling the nave to the rafters.

_Halone, have mercy on me, for I have—_

(Red banners, a silver-white dragon, golden stone walls, blue-black scales)

— _sinned_ —

(A Dravanian, all limbs and tail, perched precariously on his roof to straighten the weathervane. The way she’d flapped so frantically to maintain her balance that she’d inscribed a full somersault in the air and knocked it off completely.)

“Hmph!” He couldn’t suppress his amused huff; it sounded too loud in the empty chamber, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel embarrassed. _Halone, Fury of the northern gales, I confess in thy sight that my only sin this past month gone has been to laugh rather too much at a very helpful dragon._

The bells were still ringing, but he no longer felt crushed by the weight.

(He was halfway home—the aethernet was best taken in stages, or he got frightfully dizzy—before it occurred to him that he ought to have confessed properly to a fellow priest. Remembering old Father Baptistaux’s sour glare, he decided it was best left for the _next_ holiday.)


	4. Saving Time (Ritanelle Soleil)

“Oi, Rita! You’ll be ready to head out with us tomorrow morning, aye? Not ‘stumbling out in someone else’s shirt’ but actually ready with your kit and all?”

“That happened once—” Ritanelle stopped in her tracks, blinking up at Hoary. “You’re going scouting _tomorrow?_ ”

He blinked down at her, slowly rubbing the back of his neck. “...Aye, didn’t we tell you yesterday? Ephemie says it’s better if we’ve got a schedule.”

 _Shite. Shite._ She took a deep breath. “You know it’s funny that you should say that because I’ve just realized I’ve forgotten some shite, bye!”

“Um—hey—“

But the aether was already flowing around her, and she was gone.

 _Flash_.

She floated in a sea of stars. Here was no air, no form, and yet life was all around her. The space rang with the slow reverberations of bells grinding together, half-heard crystal chimes. _Mother_. The palms of her hands tingled. _Where…? Gauntlets. Cold, cold, metal—stone—there!_

_Flash._

Her boots hit the stone of Dragonhead’s aetheryte plaza, and she was off and running. “Hi Emm—bye Emm!” Yes, there were her favorite gauntlets, claw-tipped and wickedly sharp, right where she’d left them on the nightstand. _Gauntlets, grimoire, boots—bloody hell, I’ll need spare ink too, I’m all out._ Scouting the tempered Amal’jaa was best done with as many supplies as one could carry.

_Flash._

Mealvaan’s Gate was cold, damp, and smelled faintly yet perpetually of fish and old books. It was an inconvenience she was willing to put up with; this evening, there was enough space in the main lobby for her to sidle up to the counter and wave at the nearest assessor. “P’tahjha! Evenin’, am I still on the books an’ can I borrow—aye, _borrow_ , I’ll pay it back—about a dozen bottles of the good aurum regis ink...”

 _Flash_.

And she was back in the Rising Stones, head spinning. She grinned up at Hoary as he took her elbow. “See? Told you I wouldn’t be half a mo’.”

He looked distinctly unimpressed. “You didn’t have to rush.”

 _I’d forget if I didn’t. That happens too bloody often for my taste._ “Eh. Got my kit for tomorrow, anyway.”


	5. Show of Hands (Ritanelle Soleil)

The worst part about fighting the summoned primal Titan at his full strength wasn’t the actual battle itself. _That_ had been a blur of coiling aether and shrieking fury, the sound of the earth like the world’s heartbeat in her bones, but it was what she was used to. As Ritanelle and her companions (all safe, thank the gods, though the dragoon had had a close call at the edge of the platform) trudged squinting back into the sunlight to rejoin those who hadn’t been blessed with the Echo, she saw something far worse. Raising a hand to shield her eyes—gods, she _had_ to wear shaded glasses more often—she could just make out the redcoated Maelstrom detachment waiting for them at the overlook.

Along with several others, not in uniform. The kobolds had long since scattered, but these newcomers ought to have been firmly in the center of the pack. Instead they pushed forward, and she realized with dawning dread that several of them held notebooks and clipboards.

Eirk’a swore; when she turned to look at him, he’d vanished.

“You arse!” _Just once he could talk to them instead of me, but no…_ “Hey, Gan—“

Gantsetseg took several large steps back, shielding herself with Arenvald’s bulk. Desperate, she glanced around at the rest of them—only to be treated to the sight of a dozen adventurers and no fewer than three Scions performing a synchronized inspection of their armor, their surroundings, and their nails. Nobody looked in her direction.

Arenvald at least had the grace to look sheepish, and winced when she sighed at him. “Ah, Ritanelle, you know I’m not great with interviews.”

“Aye, it’s alright.” Grimacing, she adjusted her mask and patted at her hair in a vain attempt to tame the locks that had escaped her many braids. There was nothing she could do about the state of her armor, but hopefully that wouldn’t make it into print. At least she could wipe the remnants of her lipstick off on her gauntlets; she was privately amazed it had even lasted through the fight.

And then there was nothing else to do but square her shoulders, make her way across the rocky ground, and try to look professional. She was a Scion. She killed gods and reshaped their aether to suit her. Now, she faced her least favorite and most tedious task.

_Time to go talk to the nice folk from the Harbor Herald._


	6. The Room Where It Happens (Tiphanie Mercer)

“But why do you _bother_ , Tiffy? It’s all so...slow and boring. You’re not doing anything tangible.”

Very slowly, very carefully, Tiphanie set down the book she’d been cross-referencing and reached for another. With exams postponed while the senior clergy fought to reestablish a curriculum, the Scholasticate’s library was nearly empty. Aside from a few bowed heads in a far corner muttering together over their arithmetic, it was only her and Aristine—who, she reminded herself, was her friend and should probably not have _Canon Law Year 1173 vol. 20_ brought down on her knuckles, even if it was a question she was getting very tired of hearing.

_Oh, so the High Houses are governing now. Why do we care?_

‘ _Ouse o’ Commons? A vote? What do they take us for, a bunch o’ nobs? We’ve got real work to do!_

_These new...laws are all well and good, but that doesn’t mean things will change. Why are you so passionate about this?_

Wincing, she rubbed at the bases of her ears where they’d pinned back without her conscious input. “Sometimes progress looks like that. Like when you’re healing a wound, and one day you realize you can’t even see the scar anymore.”

Aristine frowned down at her. “When I heal someone, they’re _healed_. What can one...I’m sorry, you said it was a...referendum on the accepted font sizes for printing voter information pamphlets? What does that do for anyone?”

She exhaled slowly, remembering her mistress’ words. _In order to run a government properly, things have to be standardized. For the people to use the power they’ve been given, they have to know they’ve got it._ “Knowledge is power. It doesn’t do anyone any good to cast a vote if they don’t know where and how to do it. Imagine your grandfather, or your sister without her spectacles on. They’d need good clear papers.”

“...I’m sure I don’t know what any of us would even _do_ with a vote.” Aristine shook her head, ears drooping. “What can one vote do?”

 _What can one healer do?_ She huffed out a breath, eyes drifting over her book without really seeing it. “Knowledge is power, Ari. Votes are power. And there are a good sight more of us commoners than there are lords. Cast a vote, and they’ll mind that.”

“...And if they don’t?”

She felt her lips stretch into a fierce grin. “They will. With a man like Lord Aymeric at the helm? They will.” _Or I’ll make them mind eventually. Even Lord Aymeric confers with our Madame Speaker, and one day that will be me._


	7. Serendipitous (Evrard Briardionne)

_I might_ , Gwynael had said, _have a lead on a place for your free company._

That had been two weeks ago; since then, Evrard had made further inquiries. The house was in the Goblet, overlooking a dizzyingly steep cliff and—so Gwynael had claimed—correspondingly cheap by virtue of being nowhere near the Brimming Heart. It had four floors, a fully outfitted kitchen in the basement, and the realtor was willing to throw in the existing furniture as well. An inspection had revealed no great flaws in the construction or cracks in the walls; though the garden in the front yard was massively overgrown and an attempt at a water feature seemed mostly to attract mosquitoes, Busari swore it was salvageable. (Seeing the look on his lover’s face when he’d suggested moving Cantavrel into the pond, Evrard had bitten his tongue on the idea of simply letting it all dry up and planting cactus.)

And now the realtor—a lalafell who was tiny even for one of her kind, with a voice that was probably quite pleasant to ears not tuned to catch the faintest vibrations in the air—was leading them upstairs. “As you can see, this floor holds the master bedrooms—light and airy, easy to remodel if you’d rather—but first I’d like you to see the crown jewel of this house.” This proved to be up another flight of stairs leading to an enormous set of double doors, all intricately inlaid wood that made Busari whistle softly under his breath. She cleared her throat. “The library.”

Evrard’s ears flicked backwards. _A library? Hm. I would have thought that would figure into the price._ “Lead the way, Miss Neru.”

It was a sunny day. With its enormous windows recently cleaned and the tables covered with white drop cloths, the library’s brilliance briefly struck him dumb. Even the books had been left on the shelves. As Neneru Neru took up her patter—something about Ladislas Fulke having been a rather _electic_ reader and how they might wish to review the books before opening up the room to all and sundry—he listened with half an ear, wandering further in. A distinctly harp-shaped thing shoved haphazardly into a corner made him smile. Ah, I’ll have to invite Gwynael to perform at some point.

“--and it will be a _wonderful_ draw for your fellow adventurers. Well? What say you?”

“Hrm. Ask Evrard.”

Something buzzed in his ear, and he flicked it away. It took a moment for him to realize both lalafell and au ra were looking at him expectantly, and he felt his face heat. “I think—though of course we can’t make any promises yet—that you may have a deal.” Some impulse urged him to add, “Master Fulke’s estate won’t have any issues with the use we plan to put this property to, will they? I should hate to cause a scene.”

She shrugged. “After he died so suddenly and all, they just want to be rid of the place. They’d rather live in Limsa Lominsa.”

Busari looked as though he’d like to agree, but winced at Evrard’s pointed look. Limsa’s white sand beaches also meant having to deal with his sister Tsenxeri and her husbands for extended periods. Neither of them wanted that.

Evrard nodded. “Of course. Is that all for the tour?”

“Mm-hmm, let me just—” She cut herself off as footsteps sounded from the ground floor. Evrard’s ears strained; there were three pairs, light on their feet.

And a voice. “Hello? Miss Neru? Are you there?”

Neneru swore so viciously that Evrard took a step back, only narrowly avoiding being knocked into Busari as she barrelled down the stairs. “I told you three to come back when you ‘ad the gil, and not waste my bloody time before then! An’ you’re late, besides, I’ve just finished showing it to a proper adventurer.”

By the time Evrard and Busari made it to the foyer—Neneru was startlingly fast—they found her glaring up at a trio of auri women. The Xaela in the back was wearing a very familiarly murderous expression, but seemed content to let her Raen comrades handle it. One of them, orange-haired, seemed to be the appointed spokeswoman. “We _do_ have the gil—well, most of it, we’ll have the rest when our checks come in—and we’re early, you told us to meet at 4 bells past noon and it’s not there yet.”

“—I have a better property for you folk anyway, it’ll make a fine storefront—”

 _There’s...quite a lot of space here. And—from what Miss Neneru said, and by their garb, these three are merchants. A lofty goal is one thing, but if Vidofnir’s Wings are to soar properly...a library and a kitchen won’t be enough._ Evrard stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Miss? I believe there’s been a slight misunderstanding, but we’d be happy to work with you regarding this space. You see, my partner and I are adventurers, and...”

The redhead turned out to be Haruka; her sister, black-haired Harumi. Enkhtuyaa, the Qestiri maid, signed excitedly at Busari until resorting to a slate, a piece of chalk, and a drawing that made Busari laugh out loud and Evrard turn red. By the time their discussion of business had turned into all five of them piling into an eatery in the Brimming Heart, Evrard was feeling much more confident in his decisions.

_Yes, this will work out. Thank you, Gwynael; I’ll buy you a drink for this._


	8. Crag (Ritanelle Soleil)

“ _You want to learn? To know, to study, to learn?”_

_Drums. Drums in the darkness, and firelight reflecting off kobold steel and sharp teeth. She sat in the middle of the circle, unarmed and unarmored, and was not afraid._

“ _I do. When I call for Titan, it won’t be for destruction. I can promise you that.”_

That had been last month. It was another dark night, and Rita was still sitting at the fire with the 789th Order. As wary and cold as they’d been at first, it had taken remarkably little effort to get them to warm up to her. In exchange for food and killing monsters (and convincing the Maelstrom that _really_ , this lot was dead useless and not worth eradicating) they’d saved her a seat at the fire.

And they’d taught her their language. She’d struggled at first—alright, was _still_ struggling, and was deeply glad she’d undertaken this vacation alone. Kobold was a language like a thousand bells ringing at once, each tone a different word, and she’d yet to master much beyond introductions, asking for the latrine, and a few simple prayers. The invocation to Titan she’d came to learn was far from secure in her mouth...but she was going to try it anyway. Ge Gi swore the new moon was lucky, and that she would be there to catch her if the aetheric backlash made her pass out and start bleeding from the eyes.

She inhaled. Counted to twelve. Exhaled. _If old Guildmistress Thubyrgeim could see me now. Arcanima is about...physics. Formulae. Angles and functions. And I’m about to exponentially increase my egi’s defensive power with nothing but raw aether and a drum circle._

The drumming was already starting; each beat was slow and steady, ringing through her body like her own heartbeat. Her book was open on her lap to Titan-egi’s array. As she breathed out, pressing her bare hands flat to the stone under her, she saw it blaze yellow from behind her closed eyelids.

_Now!_

The words did not come swiftly. That was alright; Ge Gi had said they weren’t supposed to. Titan was all about patience and fortitude, of vengeance long in coming. _And we know all about that, don’t we?_ As she spoke, she felt her own aether coil and pulse within her, flowing out through the palms of her hands. In her mental sight, the world turned gold. She could feel Titan-egi floating in the air in front of her, as steady and immovable as the mountain. 

_I am the child of the earth._

_I am the daughter of the deep places, the caverns and hidden pools. My bones are stalactites, my blood lava._

_I, who hold your reflection chained, call to you!_

The drums were going wild now; the aether within her, tied to her egi, overflowed. Overflowed—hung thin as a bowstring between her and Titan—

And was set loose.

The earth  _heaved_ .

Somewhere, she was vaguely conscious of Ge Gi whooping and cheering, but it sounded like it was coming from a long way off. She’d ask how it looked later; at the moment, the thought of opening her eyes felt like moving O’Ghomoro by hand. “Ngh.”

“You did well, good, excellent, well! De Gi, the largest roasted rat for Rita!”

“Maybe.” She swallowed, licked her lips. “Maybe later. I think...I need to rest a moment.” But it came out slurred, and she grimaced.

A clawed hand landed on her shoulder. Ge Gi’s voice was soft. “Rest, relax, rest. We keep dinner warm for you. You made of Titan a mighty shield—great, powerful, mighty.”

_Good_ , she thought.  _I meant it. All I ever wanted was a shield._


	9. Dense (Tiber Gallius, Gantsetseg Bayaqud)

“You. New bloke.”

Tiber, who had been leaning against the wall of the Seventh Heaven enjoying the cool breeze, nearly choked on his cigarette. While he was fairly sure by now that most of the Scions weren’t going to kill him for existing in their presence—though it had been a very tense few bells when he and Vivian had been introduced to their healer Q’yala—he couldn’t help the dread that coursed down his spine whenever any of them actually spoke to him. Miss Soleil was bad enough, but he’d heard from his former comrades in Ala Mhigo that Miss Gantsetseg had once ripped out a man’s throat with her _teeth_. Teeth that, he now saw, were bared in an attempt at a smile as she sidled up to him. The effect brought him to mind of a shark trying to be friendly. “Um.” Well, _new bloke_ was a step up from _you, Garlean_ at least. She stood a head and a half shorter than him, and he was acutely aware that his thin shirt wouldn’t protect him at all. “...Can I help you, Miss?”

She folded her arms across her chest, meeting his eyes directly. Her cheeks around the edges of her scales were flushed purple. “I need a favor. It doesn’t leave this space, and you don’t tell a single living soul. Understand?”

 _Oh, false gods._ Hastily, he nodded.

“I...” Her gaze seemed to be hovering somewhere around his shirt collar. “...Alright. How the _blazes_ do you flirt in Garlean?”

 _What_. Slowly, Tiber blinked at her, letting her words filter through his brain. _Sorry, but I’m not interested_ was not a quip that would extend his lifespan, so he bit it back and focused on the more pertinent information at hand. “This is about Ven—Vesper, isn’t it.”

“ _Yes!_ ” It came out as an explosive hiss; as she gestured, her tail lashed hard against the wall. “He’s just—I gave him food! I hunted for him! I praise his fighting skills—really, have you seen him fight, he’s amazing—and he just—looks at me! Like an idiot! I’m not sure he actually even notices when I dress nice!” She huffed out a breath, tail drooping. “So. You’re both Garlean. I was hoping you’d know.”

He frowned, thinking through what he knew of Alan Vesper. It wasn’t much; the man had been an officer, was quite good with magitek, and had spent the past two years hiding his third eye and pretending to be a mediocre bard. He rather doubted any bardic stereotypes had been involved. _And I’m sure he’d notice when she dresses well._ I _notice when she dresses well, it’s hard not to when she’s wearing shorts like that._ Come to think of it, he _had_ seen Alan stare when she walked by. “Hmm.”

“What?”

He winced preemptively, unable to look in her direction. “...Have you considered that he may just be an idiot?”

She groaned, letting her head thud against the wall. “No. Nobody can be that dense. I refuse to accept it. There must be _something_. What would you do to let a guy know you’re interested?”

It was a chilly day, but he felt his face grow hot anyway. “I don’t—” Even if he _could_ take Vivian dancing or something, it was entirely outside the realm of possibility that he’d accept. Not from Tiber formerly-pyr Gallius. He had to focus. “I’ve no idea what _anyone_ does for fun in these lands, so I’m afraid I can’t be much help...” He squinted at her. “Have you tried telling him?”

The noise that escaped her sounded like a teakettle; her tail coiled around her legs as she stepped back in evident horror. “No! Gods, you have any idea how bloody awkward that would get?”

He could imagine it all too well, but… “I saw him drop a wrench on his foot once when you rolled your sleeves up. I don’t think it would be as bad as you fear.”

She snorted, shaking her head. “Bullshite.”

His eyes narrowed. “Truly, Miss, I have no idea why you thought I’d be able to help. If I knew _anything_ about how to—how to _date_ in this bloody country, I’d—”

But she was tilting her head, staring past him. “Hey, is that Vivian? Maybe he’ll be of more use.”

 _Vivian?_ He spun around, scanning the crowd. _Bloody hell, did I brush my hair—I’m not wearing a hat—I knew I should have bought a newer shirt—_

But Vivian was nowhere to be seen; when he turned around, neither was Gantsetseg.


	10. Coward (Ritanelle Soleil)

“Ramuh has been summoned again—we must away!”

The cry crackled through Ritanelle’s linkpearl, sending ice down her spine. She felt her ears flatten, and it was only with effort that she kept her voice calm. Her surroundings helped. In this cave that had once been a Gelmorran outpost and was now—thanks to a makeshift aetheryte and her own hard work—her home, absolutely nothing grew out of the dirt to wave leafy fronds at her. “Summoned _where?_ ”

She swore the silence on the other end sounded incredulous. “The Sylphlands, same as last time—you’ll meet us there, aye?”

“...The Sylphlands.” She knew where it was, but she had to ask. Maybe there was a second Sylphlands somewhere with fewer trees. It took all of her strength to stop her entire body from knotting itself up in her chair. “...In the Black Shroud.”

“Aye—bloody hell, Reets, you know where it is! You’re from the Twelveswood, aren’t you? You’re one of the best we’ve got—“

 _Breathe._ She squeezed her eyes shut as a primal tremor rocked through her; with a gasp, she forced herself to sit upright with her feet flat on the stone floor. The cold of it burned on her bare soles. _I’m safe here. Safe. Everything is rock and stone and Gelmorra and there are no vines or roots or—_

—“ _damnable Duskwights!”—_

_If I have my mask—I’ll have my masks, my egis, I’m a Scion, the Wailers can’t—_

There was still blood on her hands, and a Wailer standard issue blade on her belt. And it was said that the elementals never forgot. After all, that was _why_ the Duskwights weren’t to be trusted. Everyone knew it would take only one more slight to bring their wrath down. Words didn’t seem to want to come out, and she hated her voice for shaking. “Say, remember when I fought Leviathan for you, on account o’ you get the heebie jeebies near water? Let’s make it square.”

The heavy sigh was close enough to the link that she winced and rubbed her ear. “Fine. But I expect pie.”

 _Oh, thank the Twelve._ “...Meat or fruit?”

“Meat, ye great numpty!”

She slumped over her desk, head in her hands, and breathed until she no longer felt like crying. Weak she might be, but she’d go to the Shroud on _her_ terms or not at all.


	11. Terminus Est (Portia Brewster)

In the span of minutes, Rhalgr’s Reach had been plunged into one of the Seven Hells. All around Portia was smoke and blood and fire, the screams of the wounded and the shouts of those who were fending off the Imperials. The tents set up for her fellow crafters and sutlers had been overturned; as she fought her way out from the splintered wood and ripped cloth, she heard Macchia’s thunderous barking nearby. Terror twisted her heart. _You stupid dog, they’ll kill you—_

It took too long for her to straighten up and scan the area. There, Rolfe the blacksmith was kneeling by a bloodied Resistance soldier—there, a man she didn’t know crumpled as an Imperial shoved a blade through his chest—and there was Macchia, advancing stiff-legged and snarling towards her. No. _Past_ her. She spun around and dropped to one knee, long-dormant reflexes snapping back into place; the shot nicked her ear and left her half deaf, but now she had the Imperial in her sights. As Macchia leapt on him, teeth bared, she frantically felt around for something, _anything_ , she could use as a weapon.

“Get that mutt!” Garlean. Not, she saw, her initial assailant; that man was decidedly dead, having been a much easier target once pinned to the ground by two hundred ponzes of purebred canis pugnax. The man currently advancing towards her wore the armor of a centurion, bloodstained where some Resistance fighter had landed a lucky blow.

Macchia was smart enough to leave the corpse, but seemed confused by the lack of any immediate threat. As the dog circled snuffling back to her side, her hand closed around a heavy wrench. Red rage filled her. “You bloody whoreson sack-of-shite _bastard!_ ”

He took a step back, sword lowering for just a heartbeat. His surprise at being cursed at in Garlean gave her all the opening she needed to lunge forward, bypassing his feeble guard—really, how _were_ they training soldiers these days—and smash the wrench into his jaw. He staggered with the force of the blow, but before she could press her advantage she had to jerk out of the way of his sword. _Too slow._ Fire opened up along her ribs, but it was a distant pain, easily ignored.

His mouth hung open and bloody, but he managed to snarl, “Damned traitor!”

 _Traitor. Traitor._ She breathed out, and the world around her crystallized. It was blind fury that propelled her forward; agony bloomed in her hip, but it was nothing next to the desire to kill. _The Empire took what I loved! It took my father, it took Petros, it is taking my friends from me as I watch! And you have the nerve—!_ Someone was screaming in Garlean, hoarse and half-wordlessly; it took her a moment to realize it was coming from her own mouth. “False gods _fuck_ you! You disgrace your ancestors!”

Armor cracked under the force of her strikes and blood splattered her knuckles, but he was still standing. When he tried to step away and give himself room to strike back, she buried her wrench in his already-wounded side and _twisted_. As he buckled, screaming, she yanked it free and smashed it into his temple until she felt bone crunch. 

And then she was standing over a corpse, chest heaving, with the stench of blood and ceruleum and death filling her nose. Her anger had ebbed, replaced by a simmering rancor.  _There—I can’t take on the reapers, but that group of soldiers...maybe._ The centurion certainly wasn’t going to be using that blade anymore. 

Gunshot.

Pain.  _Pain_ . It stole the breath from her lungs, forced her to her knees. 

Macchia bounding past her.

Darkness.

\---

White curtains. A red stone ceiling high above her. Pain was a distant ache that promised to be a very up close and personal one if she dared to move. As awareness filtered back in, she realized that there was a badly-hushed conversation occurring three fulms away from her.

“...bloody well knew it, didn’t I? Told you Portia was a weird name...”

“ _You_ are an Elezen. Yer one t’ talk, yer name sprouts ‘alf a dozen extra letters when ye write it down...”

“Look, Garlean or not—”

“—still can’t believe she’s a swivin’ three-eyed—” A meaty thud, and a yelp.

“...beat an Imperial officer to death wi’ a bloody _wrench_ , glad she’s on our side...”

Her mouth was dry.  _Air_ hurt. When she tried to force out words, nothing came out but a choked groan. 

Rolfe’s ugly face appeared around the edge of the curtain, made uglier by a bandage over his missing ear. “Cor, she’s awake! How’re you feelin’, mate?”

She swallowed roughly. “...Macchia?”

He took a moment to frown at her, but then visibly relaxed. “Mac’s just fine.”

There was more after that—something about how they were trying not to feed her too much bacon, she thought—but she was already drifting again. Macchia was safe.  _She_ was safe. She could sleep.


	12. Accolade (Q'sevet Tia)

His mother had called him lazy and shiftless; his father and uncle had shaken their heads and muttered that there must be something _wrong_ with him if he wasn’t willing to fight for status. A young tia of the Q tribe shouldn’t be so content to stagnate. But content he’d been, until the chafe of expectations had grown too much to bear—and then he’d left. He’d left, Kerahn had followed, and they’d struck out for the big city.

 _It sounds like a fable_ , he’d remarked. _Two brothers, off to seek their fortune…_

The only gold they’d found in Limsa Lominsa had been the feathers of a chocobo. She’d been sickly and half-lame, but her eyes had still been bright enough for Sevet to take the chance. Kerahn had accused him of wasting their gil, but the bird—Seris, Q’seris—was all he’d ever wanted. She was clever, she was tractable, and she was fast. The registrars at the Gold Saucer hadn’t believed him at first, muttering something about conformation and pedigree, but he’d only grinned at them.

And that had led to this— _this_ , the heat of the sun on his back, the leather reins wrapped around his fists, the dust and the wind kicked up by Seris’s feet as she sprinted. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. Seris carried him forward, swift as an arrow, and the rest of the pack was far behind. There was only the finish line.

Closer.

Closer.

 _There_.

He skidded to a stop, and the watching crowd roared. As Seris pranced anxiously under him—he was working on acclimating her to loud noises—he patted her neck. “There, there, good girl.”

“Congratulations, Master Tia!”

One day he was _really_ going to pick up an epithet like Kerahn had. Still, he beamed at the race announcer. “Didn’t I tell you? She’s the best bird in Eorzea!”


	13. Results (Rrisya Otombe)

Scrape. Scrape. The air is cold—it’s nearing winter, and she hasn’t bothered to stoke the fire—but the wood under her hands feels warm. She swears she can feel it tingling faintly. _Whether it be beastkin or Spoken_ , her aunt Sahel has told her, _if you are to hunt in these woods you will need a mask._ It had once been her aunts carving these flat pieces of wood; before that, her grandmother, and before _that_ , all the women of the Otombe clan. And now it is in her hands.

She inhales slowly, aware of her breath. _The most important part of carving_ , her aunt Vayu has told her, _is to pay attention_. To feel the wood under her hands, the weight of her tools, the shape of the grain. The wood—a fine knotted piece of ash—will tell her what it wants to be, whether snake or eagle or snarling coeurl. Her job is only to bring it out. She’s no shaman; the elementals don’t hear her. When she wears this mask, they won’t see her, either. She will be silent, a ghost drifting through the trees like smoke, like the anguished cries of her people under Gridania’s heel.

All she hears is the steady scratch of carving knife on wood, the sound and sensation of her own heartbeat. Her mind feels oddly blank. _You are a woman grown and bloodied_ , her aunt Ristriss has told her, _but to be a successful hunter of the Otombe you must clear your mind and listen_. Under her hands, the mask is taking shape; two diamonds for eyeholes, the snout of a wild boar, knots in the wood becoming the suggestion of tusks. She exhales. _Good_.

How long has she been working? She’s not sure. It’s only when she lifts her eyes that she realizes the forest has grown light around her. The mask is nearly finished; though it still needs to be sanded and polished and if she stares at it too long she’ll likely find a dozen alterations she’ll want to make, it will suit her purpose. The proper prayers, the proper dyes, and the woods will never find her. _I won’t stop you if you wish to be an adventurer,_ her mother has told her, _but please promise you’ll protect yourself._

Well. She’s protecting herself.

The mask fits. She stands up, testing the weight of it. It needs a proper strap, but it will do.

When blood is spilled at the next new moon and a Wailer’s mask falls to the forest floor, the wood lies still.


	14. Validation (Shinju Toyotama)

Sometimes, Shinju wondered if she’d made the right decision. Limsa Lominsa was halfway around the world, sitting above the waves rather than under them; its people and accents and food were all so _strange_. She hadn’t realized Spoken came with furry ears and tails, or grown matrons less than three fulms tall. Seafood was seafood wherever you went, but the rest of it—the green things, the pastries, the red meat—was still to be eyed with suspicion until she’d tried it enough times. (Some of it had made her sick, and she’d feared she was dying until she’d heard, for the first time, the word _allergies_.) And the clothes...well. As much as she did love the clothes, it was hard to marvel over frilly dresses or lacy socks when she swore she could hear her mother’s disapproving voice at every moment. Surface-dweller clothing wasn’t made for the deep sea.

Sometimes, she wondered if she should go home. Go back to Sui-no-Sato, marry Haruto, run the jewelry shop. It would be _easy_. She would be _dutiful_.

The carbuncle-shaped alarm she’d bought chimed insistently, and she sighed. There would be time for introspection later, after her shift at the Gate. Remembering that today would be another day of lessons—advanced aetherochemistry, followed by the elective on applied biochemistry she’d been looking forward to all week—provided the extra push she needed to leave her suddenly _far_ too comfortable futon. (Try as she might, she couldn’t get used to Eorzean beds; the softness of them made it impossible to keep a headrest in place, and she _always_ woke up with sore horns.) By now she’d developed an ironclad routine, one which required no conscious input.

Clean teeth. Wash face and hands. Put on her uniform, grateful that miqo’te tailors had the same anatomical issues she faced in regards to tails and trousers. She carried a grimoire, but it was mostly for form’s sake; she far preferred her scrolls in their waxed carrying case. Outside her dormitory room, the other trainees were stirring.

She paused with one hand on the door and took a deep breath. Downstairs, there would be coffee. (Haruto, she thought with no small degree of satisfaction, would probably be horrified.) Downstairs would be her friends eating breakfast, saving her a spot at the long tables. There would be no stiff formality, no era’s unyielding weight of tradition.

She was still grinning by the time she stepped into the cafeteria. This job was _wonderful_.

Yes, she thought. She’d made an excellent choice.


	15. Plateau (Evrard Briardionne)

The Pillars are crowded—today is a market day, and the Jeweled Crozier has no shortage of silk-gowned nobles and their servants on display—but the throng sees Evrard’s gleaming robes and gives him space. Today is the day after his ordination, where he will receive his assigned benefice. As he exits Saint Reymanaud’s, his face and his ears are set in a resolutely neutral mien.

“Bad news?”

“Come on, Ev, _do_ tell us where they sent you!”

His friends are chattering, but he can’t make himself hear them. For the first time in many weeks, he finally feels _calm_. His hands have stopped shaking. The air is cold as he crosses the Hoplon, but he barely feels it. It will be far colder where he’s going.

The stone railing under his bare hands is intricately carved and worn smooth as glass from generations of hands gripping it just where he is. His gaze drifts downwards; past the fog and the many layers of the See between them, he knows the Brume’s people are waiting for him. His friends are kind and well-meaning, but they will see it as a _shame_ , as a _demotion_ , and trying to open their eyes will only bring anger on everyone’s part. Most of them are Foundation-born, like him, but they have been trained to look only heavensward, sparing little and less for those that scurry on the ground with them.

He whispers the name, half to himself. This will be his new living, his home until the See reassigns him or until he dies. This will be the flock he guards from the wolves. It won’t feel real until he says it—not while he still stands high upon the Pillars, feeling nothing but the wintry breeze around him.

“Our Lady’s Mercy.”

 


	16. Bond (Gantsetseg Bayaqud, Ritanelle Soleil)

The inn at Vesper’s Bay was always busy, but now it was packed to the rafters. Word on the streets and in the adventurers’ guilds was that the Alliance was finally planning a major push against the Garleans on Eorzean soil, and every adventurer and sellsword worth their salt wanted to be a part of it. Gantsetseg of the Bayaqud was just one of many, faceless in the crowd save for the horns just visible under the hat she kept a careful hand on as she made her way through the throng. Any other time, she might have stopped—to soak up gossip, to order a plate of something edible or a drink of something with fruit juice in it. There was no time for that now. She had to get _out_.

Outside wasn’t less crowded, but at least she could make her way across the square without anyone tripping over her tail. Her destination was a nondescript building hunched against the northern wall of the town; it looked like a warehouse, but she knew better. Inside, lit by a single candle, an elezen man—tall, gray-tinged, with intricately braided hair—was seated at a table. He frowned at her through his glasses, and she saw his hand stray to the knife at his belt. “Employees only. Miss.”

She met his gaze and held it until he had to look away. “I’m new. The wild roses bloom where they will.” She’d had to snicker when she’d heard the password—roses, for a woman whose name in part meant _flower_? If she’d believed in fate, it would have been too perfect. As the man rose, sighing, to stomp down a short flight of stairs and unlock the door so she could enter, she couldn’t keep a smile from her face.

It stayed when she beheld the Waking Sands. Though it was all bare stone—she was sure some of the pillars were actually carved out of the local bedrock—the oil lamps made it feel much less stifling than the Scion had led her to expect. The sight of other people in the storerooms on either side and the smell of something absolutely _delicious_ cooking coaxed her to step away from the stair landing and into the lefthand room, which seemed to have more people in it. It was massive, and no amount of squinting could make out the other end. _Nhaama’s scales, how far back does this base go?_ She cleared her throat, feeling suddenly awkward. “Ah, hello?”

An elezen woman was sprawled in her chair with a book, booted feet propped up on a crate. So absorbed was she that Gan’s voice must have startled her, for she yelped and dropped it. “Shite, lost my place—oh!” Now she was sitting up and staring at her, and Gan felt her face heat as she was scrutinized by the most brilliant pair of emerald eyes she’d ever seen. “You’re the archer!”

“Do I—” But, she realized belatedly, she did know her. She’d been masked, but the tattoo on her cheek had still been visible the day she and her companions had arrived to haul Gan out of the sunken temple of Qarn. “Oh, aye, that’s me.” She took a deep breath. “I am Gantsetseg of the Bayaqud, and I came to sign up on your advice.”

The woman grinned at her as she rose, offering a hand; it took Gan a moment to realize she was meant to shake it. “Ritanelle Soleil, glad to have you! Come on, let’s have a seat in the back office and talk shop.” At her blank stare, Ritanelle elaborated, “Skills, placement. Shite like that. Not like you get much choice, we’re a mite thinly stretched at the mo’, but I’d best debrief you before we head off to the Toll.”

Mutely, Gan followed her. The future stretched out in front of her, unspooling like thread, and as she glanced around—there a wall sconce needed refilling, there a lalafell woman was scribbling in a massive grimoire—she found her mind returning to a single thought.

_I think I’ll like it here._


	17. Without A Trace (Rrisya Otombe)

She’d been traveling for a full day when she came upon the ruins.

Even calling them _ruins_ was too generous. Houses had once stood here, but now they were marked only by disturbed patches in the undergrowth. A tree trunk, shattered and splintered, held rotted fibrous scraps that once might have been the woven hemp cords her clan used to mark their hunting grounds. When she touched one, it crumbled to dust. Dalamud’s shattering had left a stone three times as tall as she was embedded in the ground where a lodge might have been.

She’d heard nothing save her own breathing for malms, and now she held her breath as she reached for the stone. It was native to the Shroud, and she knew the sigil carved into it. _A cousin-family. The Otogandha. How many years…? It must be decades at least._

In the silence, something spoke. / _Stolen child?_ /

She hissed and recoiled, nearly tripping over her own tail as she spun around. The voice had seemed to come from everywhere at once, coiling through her ears like smoke. "Who are you?"

Red mist eeled its way across the ground and stopped, collecting in the hollow of the tree stump between two massive roots. Squinting at it, she thought she saw eyes and scales. / _I was Otogandha. Me! I kept them, guarded their hearths and their hunting grounds, and the masked thorns stole them and broke them, and they have forgotten me._ /

Her ears laid back—as it spoke, it had been elongating into something like a feathered serpent, and its teeth looked very sharp for something made of mist and aether—but she refused to flinch. She could feel the power in it, and it made her fiercely and suddenly homesick.  _It’s like when Grandmother calls to the hunting hawk. That same spirit. This must have been the Otogandha’s hunt god._ “Spirit of the Otogandha. You know who I am?”

Now it was a feathered serpent, and stretched out a head the size of her torso to flick its tongue at her. / _You taste of my people, but so very faint. Ah...Otombe. Daughter of Mbeleke, she who would roam far in search of fatter prey. Do her daughters still hunt, blood of my blood?_ /

Mbeleke had been her third great-grandmother. She was silent for a moment, and then nodded slowly. “Not all. Some live in the city now.” The spirit thrashed at that; she watched its coils, and took note of how it seemed to struggle to lift itself from the tree. “But enough of us do—we rremember the old ways.”

Snakes’ eyes couldn’t widen, but it looked somehow hopeful anyway. / _...Remember? Do you still follow them? My people, they left me here…_ /

She reached out, laying her hand on its nose. The aetherial scales tingled under her palm. “I will not leave you, spirit of the Otogandha. But we must  _bargain_ .”  _Lay out the terms clearly when dealing with spirits_ , her aunt Vayu had always told her,  _and always have a plan._

As the spirit settled its coils in front of her, feathered wings rustling, she made sure to keep her face blank and her ears set neutrally. She  _had_ a plan. They both wanted the same thing, after all.

_Be my spear. Be my fury. Protect our people. And when it’s over, melt like smoke into the treetops._

_I will._

/ _I will._ /

When she left the ruins, power settling over her shoulders like a cloak, she carried a chunk of bark like a shield in her arms. She left no footprints.


	18. Marked (Ritanelle Soleil)

When she staggers out of the treeline and into the marsh, still bleeding from her arms and throat and chest, it is a group of Redbelly Wasps—murderers and robbers all—who see her first.

(She doesn’t know this on sight, of course. She sees the gray skin deeper than hers, sees the orange and gold and crimson eyes, sees their haggard faces and rough clothing, and she nearly cries with relief because they are _duskwights_ and _not Wailers_ and—)

—And then her legs give out, and they have her surrounded, and she looks into the nearest man’s face (braided hair, round glasses, a nose like a hawk’s) and says _Help me._

“We’re Redbellies,” one says.

“We don’t do _help_ , and even if we did—” another begins, and is cut off by his comrades.

From there an argument breaks out. They are on a mission, the Hive is expecting them, there are traps to inspect—but the girl’s clearly a fellow duskwight, and injured _(look at her blouse, Vorsie, she’s covered in blood)_ and…there’s more, but Rinette Habelliard has just killed two men and she is _bleeding_ and she’s a murderer now, she can never go back home and the forest itself is going to destroy her.

When she falls on her side in the mud with a cry of pain, it’s the hawk-nosed man who reaches for her; she tenses, but his hands are gentle as he helps her sit up again.

“We’re taking her to the camp.”

It feels, she thinks, like she’s fallen out of the world and into a dream. She is wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket, fed scrambled duck eggs, and has a mug of weak beer poured down her throat—and she knows _that_ part isn’t a dream, because it tastes horrible. The Redbelly women don’t ask questions; they just surround her, blocking her from the view of the men while they strip her to the waist and inspect her wounds. The water they wash her with is freezing; this too is not a dream. This is her new reality.

“Ah, poor duck, this will need stitches...”

She’s cold all over suddenly, and not from the water. She can still feel Terremont’s knife at her throat, pain following the blade where he’d sliced her shirt open and jeered something about how _your brother won’t be so proud when he finds what’s left of your corpse_ —but there’s a woman steering her to a seat on an upturned bucket, and the horror looming over her shoulder turns its head away. (She remembers grabbing the knife, remembers his blood gushing over her hands, remembers how he dropped to the forest floor and could _never hurt her again_. Horror slinks slowly into the shadows, and she remembers to breathe.)

Stitches hurt. By the time she can talk without screaming, they’re bandaging her arms. The woman wrapping slightly-stained cotton around her forearms has a tattoo she’s never seen before—a twisted rune on one cheek almost like a tangle of roots, white and stark on her slate-gray skin. She has to force the question out. “What’s. What’s that? Your cheek. I’ve seen vines, but—”

“Ah, this?” The woman—now that Rinette is looking, she can’t be much younger than the mother she’ll never see again—brushes her fingers along the inked lines proudly. “Old, _old_ Gelmorran symbol. Meant ‘protection’ or summat. The vines, now those’re for resilience an’ new growth. Why? Thinkin’ o’ gettin’ one of yer own, duck?”

She’s never been allowed to; her parents have always said that only criminals and ruffians tattoo themselves so brazenly. The iron clasps at her earlobes suddenly feel heavy. _(Rinette, you ought not to wear those so proudly, what will the neighbors say?)_ “Mm.”

A week later, she stands upon the road to Drybone with a satchel of provisions and a battered bone staff that Dariustel swears will help her channel her only known spell properly. She thinks about marks, and how people earn them—how they are claimed and reclaimed, clawed out of the blood and dirt.

One year later, Ritanelle Soleil walks into a tattooist’s shop in Limsa and sits down, and the white ink _burns_ but oh, how it’s worth it.


	19. Gelid (Gantsetseg Bayaqud)

Something Gantsetseg of the Bayaqud knows intellectually: Coerthas, ever since the Calamity, is cold.

Something Gantsetseg of the Bayaqud only comes to understand when she is actually standing in Ishgard’s aetheryte plaza, bundled up to her eyes and still shaking: Coerthas is not just cold. Coerthas, in fact, is bloody _freezing_. Her tail hurts, she can’t feel her fingers, and when she dares to move her scarf away from her mouth her breath comes out in white clouds.

She remembers the crash, the screams of tortured metal. The startled gunshots as their captors panicked, and the screams as the rest of the snow landed. She remembers how _cold_ it was under her bare hands. They’re gloved now, but she stares down at them and she thinks she can still see the blood under her claws from where the ice had shredded her skin.

The snow had been falling steadily around her, big white flakes that had melted and weighed down her long hair until she’d torn the remains of an Imperial uniform off the nearest dead soldier. It falls around her now the same way.

_No. No, this isn’t—it’s over, it’s—_

Eirk’a’s arm wraps around her shoulders, heavy and solid and warm. She crashes back into herself with a gasp, reflexively cracking her tail into his shins before realizing who it is. “Azim’s dick, you scared me!”

He’s grinning at her, teeth as sharp and white as her own. “C’mon, it’s cold out. Let’s wait in the Forgotten Knight for Rita, huh?”

She exhales slowly. She is a Scion, and this is Eorzea and not some frozen Garlemald mountainside. She is safe. She’ll get inside by the fire, and she’ll be warm.

But _gods_ , she wishes she wasn’t stuck here.


	20. Two Birds With One Stone (Tiphanie Mercer)

Not for the first time that day, Tiphanie Mercer felt an oncoming headache coalescing behind her eyes. Rubbing her temples would stave it off, but she would run the risk of appearing _undignified_ —or worse, emotionally affected by the argument going on around her. She kept her hands by her side and forced herself not to curl them into fists as the voices around her escalated.

The absolute worst part, she thought grumpily, was that it had all been going so well. She’d called the rest of her fellow apprentices together to discuss how best to convince Master Duviroix to agree with Madame Tempscire’s proposal for _some_ kind of standardized schooling, and they’d been having a rather productive meeting until Baptistaux had suggested blackmail, whereupon Ermengarde had called him a cheating snake and everything had gone rapidly downhill.

When she saw Daimbert rolling his sleeves up, she cracked the butt of her staff on the flagstones. “Enough!”

“But he—”

“Really, you’re being ridiculous—”

“The pragmatic thing—”

“I said _enough!”_ Her voice snapped out like a whip and surprised even herself with her own volume, but she forged ahead. “Miss Kemp, kindly apologize to Master Cahernaut. Master Gardner, if you _must_ threaten to punch anyone, please refrain from doing it in this conference room over my painstakingly prepared notes which have not yet dried. Now, leaving aside the frankly embarrassing actions of this past quarter-bell, has _anyone_ come up with any sort of a plan?”

As half a dozen apprentice politicians competed in the Synchronized Fidgeting And Staring At The Wall contest, she fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. _Deep breaths, Tiffy._ “Alright.” She locked gazes with each of them in turn. “We are not blackmailing Master Duviroix. Expedient it may be, but it is both dishonorable and likely to get our mistress in trouble. Besides, it has occurred to me that we do not need to.”

Being seven fulms tall, Baptistaux was _always_ looking down at her; the raised eyebrow didn’t help. “Have you a better idea?”

She drummed her fingers on her staff for a moment, thinking through the possible holes in her plan before she spoke. “Master Duviroix has no children. This affair, as deeply as we love it, holds no meaning for him. However, his sister _does_ happen to live in a rented house just off the Jeweled Crozier, and Master Guillespie her landlord believes Madame Tempscire to be of like mind with him in regards to whether landlords should be facing any sort of regulations at all.”

“She wants him skinned and gutted,” Ermengarde pointed out.

Tiphanie couldn’t help but smile. “Ah, but Master Duviroix does not know that. _Yet_. Now, if we were to deliver the news that our mistress could be persuaded to vote nay on that matter...”

“We get our vote, _and_ we get to see Guillespie’s bloody face!” Daimbert looked positively gleeful. “Tiffy, I could kiss you.”

“...Please do not.”

But she couldn’t stop herself from smiling, all the same. She _loved_ it when a plan came together.


	21. Repast (Portia Brewster, Tiber Gallius)

“Do you know what I miss the most about Garlemald?”

“Is it the weather? I miss the weather. Working on the bloody docks in the Limsa sun is murder, I looked like a boiled lobster by the end of the day.”

“…Remind me not to go there in summer. But no, I was _going_ to say—”

“The clothes. I _know_ you miss the clothes. Seven hells, _I_ miss the clothes. Can’t buy a decent dress anywhere, everything’s either yalms and yalms of fabric or basically a shirt—”

“Dear sister, can I _finish a damned sentence?!_ ”

“…No need to bite my head off.”

“ _Anyway_ , it’s the food. Nobody in Eorzea knows how to make _decent—bloody—food_. It’s not hard, right? I don’t think it’s hard. These aren’t complicated recipes, you know?”

“You cook?”

“…Mama insisted I learn before she let me ship off to boot camp, same as you. Gave me Grandmama’s pickle recipe.”

“Oh, thank goodness. Maybe with that you can impress _Viv_ —”

“Shut up forever. But really, they’re bad at making borscht! How can you be _bad_ at making borscht? I’d rather just eat regular Eorzean food with its weird— _too many spices, not enough garlic_ than their attempts at making Garlean food. I think I lived off the street vendors in the Ala Mhigan Quarter—alright, when they say something’s spicy they really mean it, but it was still made well. _That_ , they can do. You don’t want to know what they served in Castrum Abania.”

“You ate it anyway, of course.”

“I wasn’t raised by pigs! It was just so... _eurgh_. They served us pot roast that I don’t think had ever _seen_ vinegar. And overcooked _every vegetable_. I told Miss Soleil that and she looked like she was going to faint.”

“Isn’t she Gridanian? They have this _thing_ about salads over there, it’s actually pretty tasty as long as you know what you’re ordering. But…that’s what these people think Garlean food _is..._ and I mean, well...it’s not like they’re _wrong_.”

“Your tongue should burn for that! I can _hear_ Grandmama rolling in her grave.”

“You know where I heard they have good...well, it’s not _Garlean_ food, not like what Mama would make, but it’s pretty close? Ishgard.”

“...Ishgard. The country with the crazy religious fanatics and the bloody _dragons_.”

“Also snowy, mountainous, and freeze-your-tits-off _cold_. Just like home! Venditor—Alan swears blind he had the best bowl of borscht there he’s ever tasted. I, of course, told him he only thought that because he’s never had our mama’s cooking, but…”

“…But it’s the closest we’re likely to get.”

“…Aye. Maybe one day we’ll head up there, see what the grub’s like.”

“…Sounds like a plan.”

“And you can treat your _Vivian_ —hey, you didn’t have to kick me!”


	22. A Love Like Religion (I'm Such A Fool For Sacrifice) (Tiber Gallius)

There are things they tell you when you enlist in the Imperial army. They tell you that the Eorzeans are savages, little better than the beast tribes, that their reliance on gods has made them weak and stupid and in need of ruling. They tell you that you are doing a glorious thing, that you are (following in your father’s footsteps and) bringing civilization to these fools who don’t know how good their lives could be if they just accepted our rule. They tell you that if you’re captured, you’ll be fed to wild beasts. They tell you to return with your shield or on it, that you’ll bring honor to your family and your country if you die well.

You think of your father (the Agrius in flames). You think of your elder sister (the radio had called it _Operation Archon_ , and there had been no survivors). You sign the papers.

There are things they do _not_ tell you in the army, things you only learn later. Ala Mhigo is hot and dry and dusty; its people are miserable, trod into the dirt by your peoples’—no. By _your_ booted feet. You cannot flinch away from this, nor from the dull resentment in their eyes. The men you’d hoped to lead are naught but a pack of ravening jackals, and you must be cruel to restore order. ( _If you lay an unwanted hand on these Aan,_ you tell them, _I will shoot you dead._ They don’t believe you—you’re too soft, too kind—until the day you’re forced to prove it, and then they hate you.)

(You clad your heart in iron, and don’t think that maybe you hate yourself.)

You take a lover, and that is some small bit of happiness until the day you find him in another man’s arms. The wound to your heart is still raw when you meet _him_.

He is oen Capsari. _Vivian_ , and you remember the name because he doesn’t look as lively as it would suggest; there’s too much strain around his eyes and in his hands, and before you can think better of it you’re buying him a drink in the canteen and having a—well. Having a very pleasant conversation and _remembering your damned ranks_ and not thinking (much) about his lovely clear eyes or his too-long hair or that you want so badly to ask him about the magic he uses.

You don’t get the chance. Your first deployment is to the Fringes, and it goes...poorly. The Alliance says they will spare you—will spare your _men_ —if you surrender. You are an officer of the Imperial Army; you expect death for yourself, but if it will spare your men (who are not good men, no, but they don’t deserve the ends they would see at Alliance hands) you will bow your head and accept Alliance custody.

And then you find out—those things they told you, when you were yet _bas Gallius_ and had only dreams of your decurion’s rank?

Those things were _lies_.

The Eorzean Alliance has honor, and trials, and when they take your armor and weapons they make you sign a receipt and promise you’ll get them back if you’re released. (You think that part’s probably bullshite.) They feed you and give you a mostly bug-free cell and never lay a hand on you. They ask you questions, and when they don’t understand you (you never were good at Common, the words tangle themselves on your tongue) they only sigh and take you back to your cell.

You remember the whipped-dog eyes and scarred backs of the Ala Mhigans. You remember the rumors of the Resonatorium where Capsari stood guard. You don’t believe it at first when Alanais pyr Venditor— _Alan Vesper_ —comes to you and says that your sister lives, but as you lay in the dark of your cell that night the iron in your heart starts to fall away. The anger strikes first, hot and savage, but then comes the grief. A man who’s surely going to die anyway has no use for revelations, does he?

When Capsari is put in the cell next to you, it doesn’t take more than a few nights of conversation for you to discover something you dread more than your own death, more than never seeing your home or your family again. Capsari has magic, yes—but he also has the _Echo_. The Scions of the Seventh Dawn want him to fight _gods_. He is brave and sharp-witted and kinder to you than he should be (and he should _hate you_ , he’s a citizen conscript and you’ve been a bloody _idiot_ ), and they’re going to get him killed.

You remember your shield.

And when the Scion—Miss Ritanelle Soleil, all clad in purple and gold and wearing the claw-tipped gauntlets you heard she’d strangled an eikon with—walks up to Vivian’s cell and announces he can go free, you don’t think twice before asking if they need another right hand.

If you’re going to die anyway, you’ll die for someone worth protecting.


	23. Alms (Evrard Briardionne)

The church had pews—fine wooden ones, intricately carved of century-old oak. The last priest had had them varnished until they glowed. To destroy them was blasphemy, but Evrard was not thinking of his soul when he took an axe to them. He was thinking of fire.

(The frost was at the door, and the men of his parish were freezing.)

The church had fine golden statues, worth a king’s random. The last priest had had them polished until one could see one’s face in them. To sell them was unthinkable, but all the same Evrard weighed the cost in his mind before taking them to a jeweler who would ask no questions of his parish priest. _Melt these and pry out the gems, and pray give me the remainder._ The saints’ sacrifices bought coal and cookware, heavy rugs and winter clothing.

(The frost was at the sill, and the women of his parish were freezing.)

The church had a copy of the Enchiridion, all gold and gems and ink that fairly glowed on the page. The last priest had had it rebound in a case of platinum and sapphires. It was a most sacred book, the very words of Halone herself. It kept the fires burning for a day longer.

(The frost was at the walls, and the children of his parish were freezing.)

The church. The church had…

It had the generosity of its congregation, their warm and beating hearts spared from shriveling by the pain of their neighbors and the certain knowledge that it could be any one of _them_ next. It had the support Evrard could wring from those more fortunate, begging and borrowing and cursing his way to a little more firewood, a few more coats for the children, some food to keep body and soul together. It had so little, but what it had was enough. It had to be enough. He walked the spider’s thread each sunrise, praying to the Fury that it was _enough_.

(The frost was in the city’s heart, but the hearts of his parish refused to freeze.)


	24. Undertones (Q'sevet Tia)

From his mother: “I’m going to check on the herds; watch your cousin, Sevet!” _And your cousin’s cousin, and your sisters, and your younger brother, and the chocobos, because one day this will be your responsibility._

From his cousin Anta: “Did you _see_ that girl that came in with the traders? Damn.” _You should be paying attention to her, instead of her tall and smiling brother._

From his sister Senanta: “Sevet, are you going to let that go? Did you hear what he said about you?” _Never let an insult go unanswered; your pride should be your greatest possession._

From his sister Seyalawo: “You really should learn to stand up for yourself, or people will just walk all over you.” _There is something wrong with you; you’re too easygoing._

From a traveling trader: “You’re Q’tenbe’s nephew? Never would have guessed.” _You are nothing like the real men of your tribe._

From his father: “It’s... _good_ to see that you and Kerahn are still getting along so well, even after that fight.” _Why aren’t you at each other’s throats yet?_

From his aunt Temzizi: “Pay attention, Sevet! You especially need to know how to defend yourself. Now, pick up your spear and let’s try this again.” _Men of the Puk tribe make their mark in blood. Magic is for women; you must learn every weapon at your disposal, for you never know when your challenger will come._

Sevet thinks, eventually, that he is very tired of listening to what people aren’t saying. Sure, Kerahn occasionally makes him want to rip his own fur out, but he _always_ says what he means. And the chocobos only wark and warble, which has no hidden meaning at all.

So he says to Kerahn, on a bright spring day with the sky as clear as glass: “Hey, want to just leave?”

And they go.


	25. Blood And Ceruleum (Gantsetseg Bayaqud)

A proper woman of the Bayaqud can ride with or without a saddle. She can hunt, kill, and cook her own game. She can shoot the wings off a fly from thirty paces, and then do the same while she and her target are moving at speed. If need or her own inclination drive her, she can wrestle a man twice her size to the ground. It’s good if she has some skill with music or embroidery, but it’s not necessary. When she’s acclaimed as a warrior of her tribe, she paints around her eyes with black kohl each morning; it shows her status _and_ protects her eyes from the glare of the sun. She takes as many husbands as she can support, but never more than those afforded to the khatun or the udgan. She tends her herds and tribe and protects them from danger, even if it means her life.

Gantsetseg is a proper woman of the Bayaqud. She can’t play the morin khurr and her embroidery is a hopeless mess, but she can ride and hunt and cook and wrestle. She can shoot anything _with_ anything, and she never misses. Eventually she’ll take a husband or three as it suits her, and have children. For her tribe—for the _Scions_ —she would fight the gods themselves. And every morning, she paints kohl around her eyes.

 _This_ morning, alone in her yurt, she closes her eyes and sets her brush down. Under her heavy rugs, the floor of her yurt is jointed metal made to fold into wedges for easy transport. Machinery hums through her horns, the steady chugging of the magitek modules that keep the tent warm on this cold winter day. The walls are heavy felt, festooned with banners and hanging rugs, but the lattice supporting them is steel. Outside, where her tribe would fence in their horses for the night, she has a refurbished magitek reaper. She spent last night cleaning and oiling a rifle instead of polishing a bow.

She remembers the day she rode back into Bayaqud Iloh on that reaper, painted a blue so vivid there was no possible way to mistake her for an imperial. She remembers her parents clinging to her and crying with joy, remembers kneeling in front of her khatun.

“ _I swear on my honor as a warrior of the Bayaqud—in the names of our tribesmen—I will bring to you the Garlean emperor’s head.”_

An imperial officer’s helm. A shredded tassel from the emissary’s robes. A broken gunblade. These trophies of Garlemald, she has brought to the Bayaqud—and each time, the same questions. _Your Scions bring us no crowned heads, Tseko? No three-eyed skulls?_ She winces to think of her uncle Tsagai, who would have separated Alan’s three-eyed skull from his shoulders whether he wore a crown or no.

The Bayaqud have allies, or they have enemies. A proper woman of the tribe knows which is which. On the Steppes, she does not say _This tribe is my deadly foe, but I shall offer my hand unreservedly to this single member,_ lest she find it severed at the wrist. She doesn’t think about their eyes, or their quick, shy smiles, or their clever hands; doesn’t want to trace the breadth of their shoulders or the scars carved into their scaleless skin. She doesn’t fret over the wounds to their bodies or hearts, or open her yurt to them. She certainly doesn’t wonder about kissing them.

She thinks about Alan’s arms, the way the skin around his eyes crinkles when he laughs. She thinks about that first, fierce hug after they’d realized Omega hadn’t killed any of their friends; of the way he’d grinned, exhausted but proud, when they’d finally figured out the secret to getting the Allagan transmitters to function after long bells of work that had seen her screaming and throwing things at her walls at least once. She thinks, briefly, about Alanais pyr Venditor and how a single arrow fired a few ilms to one side might have ended it all before it began.

“Gan, there’s coffee!”

She can’t stop the grin that splits her face, baring fangs. “Coming, Al! Leave some for me!”

She drinks coffee in addition to kumiss and butter tea. She fights with magitek now, and not a bow or her bare hands. She still rides a horse, but it’s a former imperial-issue reaper that carries her into battle most days. And when she sees Alan Vesper—once a decurion of the XIVth Legion, once her sworn enemy—in the crowd, she can only think of long bells of laughing and planning together, of strong arms around her, of a hard day’s ride and the cool water that awaits her at the end.

Well.

Perhaps Gantsetseg is not _quite_ a proper woman of the Bayaqud after all.


	26. Not A Weapon (Portia Brewster)

The shortsword was a gift.

Her fellow blacksmiths—her _friends_ , it was still so strange to think she still had _friends_ —had all but pressed it into her hands when the chirurgeons had pronounced her recovered enough to take light exercise. Rolfe, grinning sheepishly, had told her that she deserved a much better weapon than a wrench, and by now they’d all had the story of her past service out of her. She ought to have something to defend herself with, they’d said, in case of another attack. Speechless, she’d taken it and stammered something about how they were too good to her, they shouldn’t have—and then she’d all but fled.

 _You really shouldn’t have_ , she thought as she slid the blade out of its sheath. It was maybe a fulm and a half long, double-edged, and someone—probably Etielle—had polished it to a mirror sheen. While it wasn’t heavy by any means, her fingers itched to drop it; it was an impulse only stayed by the sight of her own reflection.

Her roots were growing out silver, and her bangs had fallen in her eyes. Her hand hovered in the air for a moment, uncertain, before she pushed them aside to bare her third eye to the open air. _No point in hiding it anymore, is there…? No, I guess not. The last time I was so exposed…_

It had been three years since she’d sat in the afternoon sunlight with a sword in hand, her hair pushed away from her forehead without even a hat over her eyes. _Then_ she’d been oen Gallius, a soldier of the Garlean Empire, and Eorzea had been the hostile soil she’d been trapped on instead of the welcoming arms she made a home in—another thing she could barely believe, she had a _home_ , and when the Resistance triumphed she would go back to her tiny flat in Limsa Lominsa with her dog. She would never wear imperial black and crimson again, and if she took up arms it would be for Eorzea.

It had been three years since she’d held a sword with intent to use it. Objectively, it made perfect sense; the imperials were bound to come again, and even the crafters needed to be able to fight when they did. Venditor had been a firm teacher, and her muscles remembered each strike. If she had to, she could fight like that again.

The castra had been cold and dim and stinking of fear and hatred. There had been blood on the walls, in her comrades’ eyes, on her hands. She had been _oen Gallius_ or _you there_ ; her helm had covered her face. Faces didn’t matter when all anyone looked at was your rank and nametag, and all they cared about was how good you were at following orders.

She sheathed the sword. She’d always been better at hand-to-hand anyway.


	27. Fling (Ritanelle Soleil/Emmanellain de Fortemps)

“...Oh. You’re still here.”

“Mm. You sound disappointed! Don’t tell me you expected me to _leave_.”

“Well! I...to be truthful, I thought...you’re an adventurer, aren’t you? I thought you’d be off doing—well. Adventuring...things. All...you know. Diligent. ‘Tis near noon.”

“Ugh, don’t _remind_ me. You’re warm. This bed’s warm—no, come back over here, it’s alright. ‘S nice and I’m bloody well staying until you throw me out.”

“No chance of that, old girl! Ah, last night...”

“Was _excellent_. I’m keeping you. Uh. _Can_ I keep you? Because if I find out you’ve got a girlfriend hidden away I rescind that offer.”

“ _Hah_. No, I am _quite_ unattached, I assure you. Mmm...oh, you’ve scars here. I trust one day you’ll tell me your suitably heroic story?”

“...Maybe. For now—was that _your_ stomach?”

“I do believe it was yours. And I also believe that if you’re of a mind to get dressed, I can probably convince the kitchens to furnish us with breakfast.”

“Uuuuugghh. Alright, alright, let me up or I’m never going to leave this bed—where’d my bloody socks go? Oh, here they are.”

“Ah, I’m afraid I left _marks_ , you may wish to—that’s my shirt, you know!”

“ _Not anymore_.”

She was still laughing when they went to breakfast.


	28. Echo (Ritanelle Soleil, Minfilia Warde)

The pot on the table didn’t look like much. The metal had probably been intricately engraved at one point and someone had tried (badly) to repair a crack in it, but it had been unearthed from the ruins of Mhach and was thus unfathomably old and a perfect candidate for Rin—no, for _Ritanelle_ to practice honing her Echo. Across the table, Minfilia was taking notes, and Rita swallowed hard.

The Antecedent flashed her a reassuring smile. “It’s alright. Whenever you’re ready.”

Before she could have any second thoughts, Rita yanked her gloves off and grabbed the pot with both hands.

_Shadow. Smoke. Laughing voices, high and cruel, but they don’t scare her because she knows them—these are her familiars. She is a voidmage of Mhach, and this pot had been—had been—she’d stored something very important in it and her familiars had been endlessly curious._

“ _It’s a surprise!” And she’d laughed, but—but then—_

Pain. Pain, pressure in her skull like a bladder inflating, and she was back to being Ritanelle again. “Ow, oh _gods_...”

Minfilia looked duly sympathetic, but she was smiling as she patted her hand. “That lasted much longer than your last attempt. How do you feel?”

She glared balefully across the table. “Like a bloody herd of aurochs are stampeding through me ‘ead. But I saw...” What had she seen? It took her a moment to gather the memory past the pain. “Some Mhachi sorcerer was hiding...I’m not sure what, but she—the sorcerer—thought it was just a grand surprise. There was a lot of smoke.”

“Hmm.” Minfilia made a few more notes and nodded at her. Her smile was radiant. “You did very well. You’re improving by leaps and bounds! Do you think you’ll be up to more lessons today?”

“Eurgh.” Her head really _hurt_. “...Maybe after I grab some grub. You want anything?”

“Oh, no—you stay right there, I’ll fetch something from the kitchens.”

Rita slumped forward in her chair, propping her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. _If Hydaelyn calls this a bleedin’ blessing, I’d hate to see her curses._


	29. Dote (Evrard Briardionne)

The strangest thing about being—about being _in love_ , Evrard supposed, was how soft it made you. Oh, he was no stranger to the feeling of a heart melting in his chest (over a sick orphan, over wounded knights returning from battle, over a fledgling pigeon), but it had never felt personal; never in his life had he looked at another person and felt an emotion calve off his heart like ice from a glacier.

Behind him Busari rolled over, one arm landing heavily across Evrard’s midsection. He winced slightly, but it was far too late and he was too tired to move. They had had a _very_ long day. Even with almost a dozen people and a Dravanian, moving an entire free company’s worth of building supplies into place took time, and his shoulders still hurt. Busari had rubbed them for him earlier, which had helped, but all his muscles felt like lead. _And he must be in the same shape, but never once has he made it known, and says he is fine! Ridiculous, stubborn man...but he is so good to me. So good...Halone, how did I deserve him?_

A quiet rumble sounded next to his ear; he sighed in answer. _I don’t. But for some reason...he had clothes and skills, he could have so easily left and found fortune as an adventurer, but he stayed. He stayed and he loves me—me!_ The thought still made something float within him, and he grinned to himself. It had taken far too long, but the day Busari had taken his hands and told him he was _loved_ had etched itself in his mind. And then he’d told him that he wanted to join him on his mission, and then they’d bought a _house_ , and now…

Now they would have a life. Together. The idea of it made him want to melt into the mattress forever.

 _I have to do something for him._ The thought jarred him awake, and he stared unseeing at the potted plant on the nightstand as his mind fizzed. It wasn’t nearly the time for Starlight, and they hadn’t had anything like an anniversary yet, and he—gods, he had _no idea_ when Busari’s nameday was. He was a terrible lover. But if anyone deserved a gift with some meaning to it, it was the Xaela who’d managed somehow to take possession of his heart. He rolled over to stare at the ceiling instead.

 _Plants? No. Spears? No. He has entirely enough of those._ The thought of his _company_ made the room suddenly feel even warmer than it was; besides which, he knew damned well he wasn’t _that_ good. Not as good as Busari deserved, anyway. _Hmm._ Something he’d heard—well, read—from Enkhtuya tickled his memory, and he frowned. _There’s a drink the Xaela make, very hard to get here...oh, damn it, and what was it called? Fermented mares’ milk…_

Ah. Kumiss. That would do for a present. He wondered if it came by the keg.

The thought of Busari’s smile at seeing things from home was enough to make him grin foolishly into his pillow until sleep claimed him.


	30. Close (Rrisya Otombe)

Something was touching her. Rrisya was sleeping, warmed through by the morning light, and _something was touching her._

Any trained warrior of the Otombe would have gotten up to see what it was. Rrisya kept her eyes shut and sighed into her pillow as four impossibly tiny paws dug painfully into her leg, moving up her back. _Cat, you have an acre of pillow…_

“Mrp.” Well, at least it wasn’t the frantic _ekekekek_ of the cat spotting a bird, squirrel, or delicious-looking lizard; no, it was just the sound of a cat seeking warmth.

This would have been rather more pleasant if warmth had been, say, by Rrisya’s side instead of where Hiss the coeurl kitten had decided it must be. Namely, directly atop and around her head. She groaned into his black fur, flinging an arm out in a vain attempt to stop him from completely cutting off her air supply, but he seemed determined to turn himself into a furry hat.

...It could be worse. At least he was purring and hadn’t started kneading her ears yet.

She fell back asleep.


End file.
